


Taste Test

by ilookedback



Series: Hyggetober Challenge Ficlets [5]
Category: The Great Wall (2017)
Genre: Crushing, F/M, Modern AU, Yearning, contains sugar and dairy, feeding baked goods, he's good with knives right it all tracks, not established relationship just, tovar is a restaurant butcher and reader is a pastry chef
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 07:09:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26847958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ilookedback/pseuds/ilookedback
Summary: You’re not normally so jumpy. There’s something about him that puts you on edge, something a little intimidating in his low voice and hard stare. The scar over his eye that you’ve never been brave enough to ask him about. Some of your co-workers have speculated he used to be in the military but you’re not sure if it’s true. He’s not quick to offer personal details about himself.There is just. Something about him that makes your stomach go fluttery and your cheeks burn a little hot. Something that makes you wish you could be funny and smart and say something that would meet his approval. Something that might soften his tough exterior.
Relationships: Pero Tovar/Reader
Series: Hyggetober Challenge Ficlets [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1952407
Comments: 14
Kudos: 40





	Taste Test

**Author's Note:**

> For day 5 of my Hyggetober Ficlet Challenge, which is based off of [this prompt list](https://www.instagram.com/p/B201-j7ljdU/?igshid=1pflwcl5260me) and will span several Pedro fandoms. Today's prompt is "comfort food." Big thanks to yespolkadotkitty for the beta and hand-holding, and to knittingqueen13 for giving me the idea to include honey.

The restaurant is quiet, closed for service today and everyone else doing a better job of enjoying the day off than you are. But you’d been struck with inspiration in the middle of the night and there are better ingredients to play with here than at home. You like the calm of being alone in the usually bustling space, the luxury of having it all to yourself while you work out your measurements, leisurely browsing the pantry as you contemplate your ingredients. If you perfect this today you can get it on the menu by the end of the week.

The back door slams closed, making you jump, and a tablespoon of oats goes scattering across the countertop, spilled from your surprised hands. You turn to face the footsteps growing closer down the hall and you nearly jump again when their owner appears and you see it’s Tovar. His perpetually grumpy face turns even darker when he sees you, a confused frown forming as he looks at you and then glances around the room as though reassuring himself he hasn’t gotten his days of the week wrong and shown up to a regular shift.

“Hi,” you say. “What are you doing here?”

Tovar is the butcher, so it seems unlikely he’s come in on the weekend for recipe development like you have. He pauses for a moment longer, taking you in and looking past you at the butter and oats laid out on the countertop. He’s a man of few words and for a moment you think he won’t answer, but then he nods towards the door of the walk-in.

“I need to check the beef. I’m not sure they hung it right when the delivery came in yesterday.”

He’d been out yesterday, not that you’d let yourself notice, certainly not because you’ve been nursing a burgeoning crush on him from across the kitchen for several months. Perhaps you made note of it because of the brief, panicked energy in the place when the chef de cuisine had been searching for a last minute substitute. That’s all.

He doesn’t wait for a response, and he doesn’t ask what you’re here for, just disappears into the walk-in and leaves you alone again. You turn back to your station and clean up the spilled oats, only to jump again when your timer goes off, reminding you to check your batch of cookies.

You’re not normally so jumpy. There’s something about him that puts you on edge, something a little intimidating in his low voice and hard stare. The scar over his eye that you’ve never been brave enough to ask him about. Some of your co-workers have speculated he used to be in the military but you’re not sure if it’s true. He’s not quick to offer personal details about himself.

There is just. Something about him that makes your stomach go fluttery and your cheeks burn a little hot. Something that makes you wish you could be funny and smart and say something that would meet his approval. Something that might soften his tough exterior.

The cookies are perfect, lacy and golden brown, and you set them to cool while you tidy the rest of your work space.

The walk-in door creaks open and clicks shut again and Tovar heads to the sink to wash his hands. You think he might leave, maybe even walk out without saying goodbye, but to your surprise he comes up behind you and hovers over the cooling rack of cookies.

“What are you making?” he asks. He leans close, examining the delicate rounds and looking a little hungry.

“I’m trying something new,” you tell him. “Oatmeal lace cookies with orange zest and amaretto ice cream.”

He hums an acknowledgment and takes a step away and you go a little desperate and decide to be brave.

“I could use a taste tester if you want to try one.”

He raises an eyebrow. Looks at you. “You hardly have to twist my arm to eat dessert for lunch, amiga.” His voice goes amused at the prospect, his accent curling around the words and drawing out the h in a rasp-- _hhhardly_.

You plate the dish for him, laying a cookie down and placing a rounded scoop of ice cream on top. It’s a little soft, still, from not having enough time to freeze through, but it’s close enough for a taste. The dish looks plain so you add a delicate drizzle of honey over the plate and slide it to him along with a spoon.

“This is the first attempt so it might be missing something. I need you to be brutally honest,” you tell him. “Don’t hold back.”

“You want me to tell you if it’s terrible.” He almost smirks and it makes your heart rate go up in anticipation.

“Or if it’s good, but not great,” you say.

You know that he’s a good eater. You’ve seen him put away a plate of food at family meal like he hasn’t eaten for days. But your dish he approaches slowly, cracking off an edge of cookie and scooping a portion of ice cream with the spoon, building the bite like he’s taking this seriously.

He puts the spoon in his mouth and looks down thoughtfully as he chews. And then, slowly, he smiles.

Your heart soars. He doesn’t meet your eyes, still looking at the plate as he breaks off another spoonful, but he’s still smiling, a soft, content look on his face.

“It reminds me of something my mother used to make,” he tells you, and takes another bite.

You could cry. You could kiss him. You could listen to him offer up morsels of information about his past for hours.

“She made something like this?” you prompt.

“Not exactly.” He finally glances at you before looking down at the plate again. He scoops up some of the honey drizzle with the edge of his spoon, pushing it into the soft ice cream. “The flavors make me think of it. It was an almond cake with oranges and honey. A traditional Spanish recipe.”

He hesitates, like he’s about to say something else, and you hold your breath as he tastes thoughtfully at the ice cream on his spoon again.

“This is good, but—I mean it’s really good,” he assures you, deep, raspy voice going earnest. “But. I think maybe… if you added saffron?”

You could _kiss_ him.

“Yes,” you agree. “That’s a good idea, I’ll try that. What about the cookies? Do they need anything?”

He sighs. “The cookie is perfect. I could eat twenty of them.”

You laugh, and he grins, and it’s breathtaking.

“Take as many as you like,” you tell him, nodding to the tray. “I can always make more.”

He shakes his head and takes a modest stack of three when he leaves.

On Tuesday, when you see him again, his face is back to its serious self, but he detours on his usual route through the kitchen to pause by your station and pushes a piece of paper onto the counter next to your scale.

“If you want it,” he shrugs, like it’s nothing, but you look at the handwritten notes and see _200g almond meal_ and _100ml honey_ and. It’s everything.


End file.
